


never really over you

by wolfwalkerspirit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Spoilers through Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwalkerspirit/pseuds/wolfwalkerspirit
Summary: “Clarke can’t remember what they were even laughing about, only knows that she’s breathless and her sides hurt with a pleasant sort of ache she hasn’t known in too long. And that’s precious. Still, what she treasures even more is the way Bellamy leans in to steal the fading notes of laughter from her lips with his own. It’s easy, a little smug, and he eases back grinning a challenge. “What do you think, princess?” he questions with a tilt of his head. His hands fall to her waist like its the most right thing in the world, and the pink of her cheeks, from laughter, from summer and sun and affection, warms just a shade with the pleasant hum coursing in her blood.”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	never really over you

Something in Clarke’s heart cracks open a little when she looks at Bellamy. The light dancing mischievously in his doe brown eyes, the fond curve of his smile, the mess of curls, so tempting to bury her fingers in. There’s just something so sweet, so simple about this moment, and she wouldn’t trade it, wouldn’t trade him for the world. Laughter falls easy around them, catching on the breeze, drifting through slanting rays of sunshine. Something warm and light suffuses through her chest, seeping in past the crumbling defenses and her armor plated heart. 

She’s been waiting for this. A moment where all the chaos falls away and pressures and worries are swept off on summer air. And now that they found the time to sneak off, or made the time, really, its everything she dreamed after when the nights were long and solace ran thin. Because he’s here, he’s happy, and so is she. 

Clarke can’t remember what they were even laughing about, only knows that she’s breathless and her sides hurt with a pleasant sort of ache she hasn’t known in too long. And that’s precious. Still, what she treasures even more is the way Bellamy leans in to steal the fading notes of laughter from her lips with his own. It’s easy, a little smug, and he eases back grinning a challenge. “What do you think, princess?” he questions with a tilt of his head. His hands fall to her waist like its the most right thing in the world, and the pink of her cheeks, from laughter, from summer and sun and affection, warms just a shade with the pleasant hum coursing in her blood. 

“Of what?” she asks in return. Raising a brow, she casts her own gaze, bright and sure, at him. 

“An hour before someone burns the camp down without us around? Maybe two if we’re lucky?” he guesses. But there’s something teasing in the curve of his lips and she has to resist the urge to reach up and wipe it off. Instead, she rolls her eyes, winds her arms around his neck. He’s close enough now that the scent of him is enough to drown out the forest canopy, gunpowder and salt and something like sunshine filtering into her senses. She breathes him in.

“Come on, Bellamy. Give them a little credit,” Clarke replies. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he jokes, the beginnings of a laugh rumbling in his chest. It’s too easy to melt into, to get attached to. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle, light catching in the irises. 

“I guess we better make it quick, then,” she says, stretching to brush her lips over his. She doesn’t need to reach, though, because he dips his head, meets her halfway, kisses her with all the affection, all the trust, all the heat that’s been building between them. 

It’s something like relief, that settles in Clarke’s chest. Because she’s been here before, at the crossroads between something easy and something more; she’s been hurt before, but this feels different. It feels so distinctly right in a way that Finn never did. In a way no one ever had. But Bellamy’s hands fit on her waist, make heat bloom across her skin beneath the thin cotton that separates them. He sparks just the right balance of pushing—a step into her space, a drag of teeth across her bottom lip—and letting her take control. Because Clarke knows what she likes, knows what she wants, and she isn’t the naive girl who first stepped out onto the ground anymore. 

Her hands move to his jaw and want, something beyond the surface level rightness of it all, flickers to life in the pit of her stomach. It’s more like longing, deep and real, tangled with threads of this heat sparking between them. So when Bellamy walks her back against the trunk of a tree, she lets him. Still, he steps in closer, closing the space between them and kindling that feeling. His chest molds against hers, feet staggered between each other’s, hands steadying on her waist, and Clarke is struck again with how it just fits. Like a familiar sweater, or an old routine, it’s easy to sink into. Comfortable. 

It’s only when she has to breathe that she tips his head back with the hand at his jaw, nowhere for her to go with the tree at her back. Some sort of recognition plays in Bellamy’s eyes, and he eases back for a beat, breathing hard himself. But it’s only a moment before he busies himself instead with kissing down the curving line of her jaw, then the slant where it meets her throat. Something catches in Clarke’s chest, and it isn’t a breath but a gasp, so she chokes it back. Bellamy doesn’t need the satisfaction. Even still, her hands sink into his hair, holding him close. 

But... control is a fickle thing.

“Bellamy,” she says when his mouth closes around her pulse point and he sucks at the sensitive skin. In protest, in wanting, she doesn’t know why, but his name slips out anyway. And from the telling curl of his lips, the faintest scratch of an exposed canine against her throat, she can tell he definitely has the most self-satisfied grin on his lips right now. Some old, fading part of her wants to bite the name back in, wants to bristle at the instant of advantage he gained over her. Yet, the old rivalry and animosity have long since slipped away. And the curling heat inside licks higher at her ribs, and she finds herself smiling and huffing an amused laugh.

God, when was the last time she was so happy? 

Bellamy, with warm breath washing over her throat, goes back to his teasing: sucking at her skin, scraping with his teeth, smoothing his tongue over the faint crescent marks left behind. And it’s only when something like a pleased moan works up her throat, past her lips, that he comes away for a moment. When he catches her gaze again, there’s a new kind of spark there, like intensity, like want. Though, his tone is still light, if not warm and rough in all the right places. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks with a raised brow. It’s somewhere between teasing and genuine and Clarke can’t figure out which one weighs stronger in the words, so she settles with honesty instead of a dry remark or a shove of his shoulders. 

She offers a quick nod, blush dusting across her cheeks, but she can’t help the smug quirk of her lips. Bellamy’s been rubbing off on her. “I didn’t ask you to stop,” she counters, giving a slight tug where her hands are still buried in his hair. 

When Bellamy just beams at her, something almost proud flickering through his eyes—like she learned something from him, which, in all honesty, she has; the attitude and confidence come from him—she does decide to untangle one hand from his messy curls and shove him. He laughs, knows she doesn’t mean anything by it, and her heart settles a little at the way he just leans back in. She can push him away, and he doesn’t run, doesn’t break, just stays steadfast and at her side. And maybe it’s that notion, that sense of trust and certainty that brings her hands to the belt at his waist. It’s definitely what keeps her fingers steady as she works the buckle free. 

Bellamy’s mouth is at her ear, then, the final edges of laughter turning to something a rougher, hotter, that sends a shiver down her spine. It burns hot and cold all at once. She pulls the belt free of its loops and drops it to the ground beside them, that familiar wanting rising higher again. “You sure?” he asks anyway, because he’s good that way, considerate. And though Clarke couldn’t see it at first, if anyone has a heart that glimmers with threads of gold, it’s him. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she answers, and she means it.

Lips brush her temple, sweet but quick, and her heart flips with it. But then Bellamy’s hands slide slowly, decisively down the sides of her chest to settle at the dip of her waist and smolder there. The raw wanting burns out the softer affections, leaving little room for anything but heat and passion and spark. So her hands start moving again, working at his pants while Bellamy does the same to hers. 

For some reason, Clarke can’t find it in herself to be nervous as clothes are slid aside, just far enough to tease, revealing creamy expanses of her own skin, as well as the warmer hue of Bellamy’s. Anticipation coils up in the place of anxiety, and it’s a welcome feeling. Her shirt is rucked halfway up her stomach, and she slides her hands against the toned muscle of his abdomen until his is higher. It’s sloppy, and if it weren’t for the sunshine in his eyes and the warmth bubbling in her chest, everything about this would read lusty teenagers sating desires and nothing more. Clothes are still on (mostly) and there’s nothing saccharine and sugary about it (though that suits them fine). 

Still, the difference is in the way he breathes her name when he finally pushes into her. Reverent, warm, wanting. Like she’s everything he ever needed. It’s in the way she falls apart at the sound, guard cracking in a way she knows is irreparable. And she finds she doesn’t care. Because, with Bellamy nuzzled into the crook of her neck, hands soft but steadying on her hips, skin blazing against hers, she thinks it isn’t so bad to share her heart with someone else. He’s earned it, earns it a little more with every thrust and every moan that sounds like home to her. 

Her hands fist helplessly in the warm fabric over his back. The muscle beneath flexes with every move, and it makes something deep in her stomach quiver. Every heavy breath she lets out, sucks back in, is matched by one of his, brushing across her skin in streaks of heat. Racing harder, faster, her pulse kicks up, and adrenaline rushes with it. Everything feels blurred, hazy, yet narrowed down at a deliciously sharp point of heat and pleasure all the same. It’s like Bellamy comes into precise, golden focus while the rest of the world fades away. Because all that matters is the stroke of his thumbs at her sides, the upward press of him sinking and settling deeper inside. 

“I love you,” Clarke says, breathy and hot and heavy. The words just form in her lungs, shaped by the echoing beat of her heart, and come up in a rush of air. They fall off her lips before she can stop them, and she realizes once they’re out, that she doesn’t want to bite them back. Because they’re true. Her cheeks flush pink—pinker than they already were—and the heat of it comes in a cresting wave. Her whole face burns hot, spreading down her neck and disappearing under her shirt, but it isn’t anything like shame. Maybe a tinge of embarrassment at having been the first one to admit that depth of feeling, but it’s more the overwhelming realization that blooms in shades of pink across her nose and cheeks. She loves Bellamy Blake. And that makes her happy. 

Against the crook of her neck, he draws in a gasp. For a moment, there’s only rushed mumbling she can’t make out and sloppy kisses pressed to the side of her throat and down her shoulder between the words. Then, he really breathes, not just the quiet, panting breaths, only enough to sate the sting of aching lungs, and pulls out of her curtain of blonde hair long enough to meet her gaze. Something fond crinkles his eyes, and the doe brown irises fold and swirl in the slanting sun rays. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, even more so breathless and messy and pink cheeked. Hers. “I love you so much, Clarke,” he says, like she’s the sun and stars and sky. Then, “you have no idea,” slips under his breath like a long kept secret. 

Clarke kisses freckled cheeks, basks in messy curls, and breathes in the familiar scent that belongs only to him. The waves of pleasure build higher, and his words, that affectionate little admission, still echo in her mind. It’s perfect. She loves him, he loves her, and even for all their quirks and flaws and struggles, it’s perfect. 

Then, everything snaps into startling clarity and the dream breaks apart. 

Clarke jolts out of sleep, pulled sharp and fast, and lush tree canopy and forest gives way to the four metal walls of the rover. It’s dark, always dark, and the blankets beside her are cold and empty. Memories and reality come washing back in a sobering wave, like ice cold water splashed across her face. All the warmth of the dream is gone, erased in an instant so she can’t even cling onto that. It’s all over, and this is reality, cruel and cold and lonely.

In a rush, Clarke feels the crippling weight of it all settle back in. And because it’s a moment of weakness, with layers of strength and guard stripped away by too kind a dream, she doesn’t fight it. She gives into the salt and moisture on her cheeks, lets tears burn in her eyes without the effort of blinking them back. She lets the emotion clog her throat, the nausea twist her stomach, and the tremors wrack her frame. 

Her whole body aches with missing him. 

The dream burns like a memory on her skin. She can still feel the press of his lips against her throat, the steadying weight of his hands on her waist. There’s even still that drunken buzz of pleasure humming beneath her skin. Somehow, it helps cut through the longing, but also amplifies it tenfold. Because she wants—needs—Bellamy with her. Her skin tingles with it, and it hurts. Because it was never real. Because he isn’t here now to hold her and brush her tears away. He would, she bets, if he were here. He would whisper assurances and tell her she was doing her best and that everything would work out, even if that was just sweet sounding lie. 

Something breaks a little in Clarke’s chest, and she curls up a little tighter on her her side, cries a little more. Two months. She made it two months, a little over, before the dreaming and the loneliness got to her. And even though some stubborn part of her still whispers that she’ll make it, that she’s strong and she’ll get through this, for the first time, she isn’t sure. All because she could walk straight through hell with Bellamy at her side, but without him, her resolve starts to crack. He was her co-leader, her anchor, her sanity in a world with little left. And now he’s thousands and thousands of miles over her head in the leftover remnants of a broken space station, unreachable for years to come. 

Eventually, the tears subside, and Clarke is left with a raw throat, puffy eyes, and a heart just a broken as the moment she woke up. Though, loosening the hold she had kept in the blankets, she realizes just how hollowed, how empty it left her feeling once all is said and done. Like whatever tears she cried held all the pain and frustration and sorrow and now she only has the echo of a deep ache and a stubborn stinging in her chest. And that almost feels worse, as she reaches up to dry her eyes, because she doesn’t want to forget. She doesn’t want the pain to fade, because that’s like admitting defeat, admitting that her friends are gone and it’s time to move on. And that is the one thing she refuses to do. 

But, at least the numbness helps the nausea still unsettling her stomach, the feel of everything from her bones to her core aching with longing. And it helps her sleep, even if the memory of the dream still clings to the forefront of her mind. 

She misses Bellamy, and it’s a long, long night without him.


End file.
